Jean Baptiste: A Story of French Canada

by James Edward Le Rossignol

But Jean was not to be deterred from his purpose by any threats, and before dawn on the fifteenth of July he took the road for Quebec in his spring cart, with the light mail-bag under the seat and a supply of butter and eggs for the Champlain market. He was in high spirits, for all his work was going well, and he was making a fair start along the road to success. The years of preparation were over, and he was beginning to carry out his plans, to realize his dreams. The time of deliberation was at an end; the time for action had begun.

The morning was dark, but as Jean drove along the road the sky brightened, the stars went out one by one, and a rosy glow appeared in the East, chasing the shadows down the mountain-side, until the whole valley was filled with the clear light of day. As he reached the summit of the last hill he saw the sun rise over the mountains of Notre Dame. It touched all the circle of the hills with a tinge of gold, gleamed on the tin roofs and spires of Quebec, illuminated the slopes of Beauport, the Isle of Orleans and the cliffs of Levis, while the great river shone like burnished silver, and the ships, with their white sails, moved up stream with the rising tide. The heart of Jean Baptiste rose to greet the rising sun; his soul exulted in the glorious view; and his strong voice broke into song as he descended the long slope that led to the historic Beauport Road.

"A Saint-Malo beau port de mer,

A Saint-Malo, beau port de mer,

Trois gros navir's sout arrivés.

Nous irons sur l'eau

Nous y prom' promener

Nous irons jouer dans l'île.

"Trois gros navir's sont arrivés,

Trois gros navir's sont arrivés,

Charges d'avoin', chargés de bled.

Nous irons sur l'eau

Nous y prom' promener,

Nous irons jouer dans l'île.

Jean sang the dear, foolish old song to the very end, and sang it again and again until he came to the main road and joined the stream of vehicles of every description that were carrying hay and grain, butter and eggs, potatoes and onions, strawberries and currants, and all the produce of the Côte de Beaupré to the markets of Quebec. He was not well known in those parts, but had a cheerful greeting for all as he passed, and by the time he reached the bridge over the St. Charles it was known to half of the inhabitants of Beauport and many people from the more distant parishes that there was a new mail carrier from St. Placide, a gay, dare-devil of a fellow, a reckless driver, but withal a young man whom it was a pleasure to meet along the way, so debonair, so joyous, a good fellow in every sense of the word. There were those, even, who knew his name, who remembered his father, pronounced him a chip of the old block, and prophesied for him a brilliant career if he did not break his neck before he got well started on the road to fame and fortune.

In the afternoon, as Jean was returning by the same road, he was not so cheerful, and he did not sing, for the day had not fulfilled the promise of the morning hours. Soon after he crossed the toll bridge his horse cast a shoe, and he was obliged to return to a blacksmith's shop in the city, where he spent an hour of his time and a considerable part of his day's wages. Besides, he had to pay another toll at the bridge, which was irritating. A little later, as he was driving along at a rapid pace, trying to make up for lost time, a wheel came off the cart, and he narrowly escaped a bad fall. There was another hour's delay, and further expense.

Jean's reflections, as he toiled up the long, sandy hill toward the mountains, were anything but agreeable. He had given a whole day's work for nothing and less than nothing. He would arrive late with the mail, receive a reprimand from the postmaster, and hear the sneering remarks of the impatient neighbours. Worst of all, he had been outwitted by Tom and Paddy, for there could be little doubt that both accidents had been brought about by some trickery of theirs, and it was impossible to tell what they would do next. Certainly, there was less profit in the contract than he had thought, and little prospect of improvement; but give it up because of opposition he would not, not if all the Sullivans and Bradys of the Irish settlement were to set upon him.

The sun was sinking behind the mountain as Jean reached the summit of the long hill, and it was almost dark when he came to the "Forks," about a mile from the first house. The main road led direct to St. Placide, about five miles away, while the road to the left went up over the mountain in the direction of Lake Beauport, and reached St. Placide by a route circuitous and difficult, especially after dark. Jean's horse was accustomed to the main road, but stopped at the "Forks," and then quickly turned to climb the hill on the left.

"Sacré fou de cheval," said Jean, with a laugh, "where are you going? You are not hungry, then. You don't want to get home before midnight. There now, come about. It was a mistake. This way, old fellow. Marche donc!"

The horse came about, though unwillingly, but just as he had begun to trot along in response to a sharp cut of the whip, Jean heard a voice that seemed to come from some one standing directly in front of him:

"Take the other road!"